


Soaring to new heights

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:04:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Metze scores a goal for the BVB. And this is what happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soaring to new heights

**Author's Note:**

> First published on LJ on September 25th, 2005.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.

He's stunned; all the people clamoring for interviews, for him to turn to the cameras, congratulating him, yelling for him, again and again, ‚MetzeMetzeMetze', and then there he is, Basti, his _Basti_, in the midst of all the madness, grinning broadly, and he just wants to fall into his arms, into him, forget everything save him, save themselves, and then Basti's _there_, in front of him, and his arms are spread, and Metze sighs into Basti's neck, wanting to kiss him, wanting to touch him all over, wanting to do so many things, but there's always the nasty little censor in his head who tells him no, no, you're still in the locker room, with all the teammates around you, patting you on the back, yelling at you, cheering you up, and you can't afford to need Kelly right now… and then he pulls back, Basti's arms still around him, and he sees himself mirrored in the widened pupils, and time stands still, whirling around them, and still they stare into each other's eyes, and then, bam! everything catches up with him again, and he turns and laughs, draws the Fuddler into the embrace, and Basti's swallowed by his teammates, but Metze knows that he's still there, still waiting for him, for _later_, and that's all he needs right now.

Freshly showered, the still wet hair cooling on his neck, Metze shoulders his bag and it feels as if it's feather-light, stuffed with air and light and elation and victory, and then he's at the team bus and when he looks up, he sees Basti already sitting in the last row, staring to the front, waiting for him, and something unfurls in his midst, warmheavy, and he hurries to the entrance. And then he plops down beside Basti, and despite his grinning mien he wishes nothing more than not to have their relationship, their _real_ one, keep secret, he wishes he could kiss Basti, could trace the faint stubble from the ear to the chin, could nibble at the jawline, could slide his hand under the sweater, feeling the nub harden under his fingers, twisting it slightly, could hear Basti's breathless laughter when he slides his fingers over the ticklish sides, circling the waistband, and… but he can't, and then Basti smiles, whispers, "Yours or mine?", and Metze grins, "You're closer, Basti," and Basti nods, "I can't wait," and there's so much hidden in these three little words, and Metze nods, swallowing, and watches the team bus fill up with the other colleagues.

They're tired, so there's not much chatter, except for Rosicky who was sitting at the sidelines and now is next to Jan, the low-pitched Czech carrying over to Metze who can't understand anything, although Tomas has been teaching him some words and expressions, but he can hear the underlying anxiety and worry, and he knows how important Jan is for Tomas, someone to lean onto, someone who'll draw off some of the overflowing bouncing energy that always sustains Tomas, giving him quiet and peace, and now that he'll possibly be out for six months, well. Metze sighs, and then warm breath fans out over his ear, "hey," and he smiles, turning to Basti, "I just worry about Jan." Basti's eyes light up with understanding, and he nods, and his hand is on Metze's thigh, squeezing slightly, the warmth seeping through the fabric, and he puts his own over it, and their fingers entangle, like they have done a thousand and thousand times before, so naturally.

As no one is sitting in the same row, they keep it like that for the rest of the drive, and Metze tries to catch some z's, but he can't, just gets drowsy, watching the lights flash by on the autobahn, nondescript tree-lined landscapes interrupted by the lights of a city, or a factory, feeling Basti's warmth at his side, his usually chatty best friend for once silent, and soon they see the first autobahn signs of Dortmund, driving through the first suburbs and Metze knows it's just a matter of minutes before they're at their destination.

The bus comes to a stop, and Bert's saying that they're there, that everyone's to get off the bus, and still caught in the fine web of the treacherous sleep, Metze's teammates stumble off the bus, with the exception of Jan, who's leaning heavily on Tomas. Metze waits until he's safely off the bus, and he and Basti are the last, not catching the first words of Marwijk's little team-talk, but Metze knows the gist anyway; relax, enjoy, and on Monday there'll be training, and then he says his good-byes to Bert, and the Dutchman smiles at him, "Well done," and Metze nods and smiles.

Basti's already at his car, and Metze hurries up to meet him there, not without a last pat to Marwijk's shoulder, and then he slides into the passenger seat, the door's click suddenly too loud, and everything's a lot more intense, the lights of the car dashboard glowing, the radio's newsspeaker's droning swallowing up the low roar of the gears, and the closeness of Basti overwhelms his senses; it has been too long since the last time.

Too fucking long, and he squirms, aware of his cock rising, the blood rushing south, and, "Can't wait either, Christoph?", and Basti sounds as jittery as Metze feels, "Hell yes." – "Can't go faster, but we're there soon," and Basti's hand takes a quick detour from the gear shift, sliding down Metze's thigh, fingertips following the inseam of the jeans, pressing down slightly, and when his hand stops at the junction of thigh and hip, Metze groans, bucking his hips forward, wanting the delicious grip not to stop, not ever, to press harder, to rub him just exactly the right way, but then Basti draws his hand back to change gears, and he sighs. "You tease."

Basti chuckles. "Buy me a car with automatic." Metze grins, that's his Basti, and then the car takes a quick turn to the right, and they're there, at Basti's flat, much too quickly, and Metze suspects Basti has driven faster than allowed, but there are no speed traps on the way from the team quarters to Basti's flat, a fact Basti shamelessly abuses whenever he's – or they're – almost too late.

And then Metze's at the door of the two-storey house where Basti lives, inhabitating the lower apartment (a single guy lives in the upper, with occasional ladies' visits and Basti often comes over to Metze's flat whenever this is the case, because the usually silent guy is surprisingly vocal then), and Basti's fumbling with the key, and then they're in the hall, and Metze crowds Basti while the latter is again searching for the other key to his flat, but is interrupted in his search by Metze's hands feeling him up, roaming over his torso, pressing himself fully against Basti, finally indulging in licking the nape of the neck that's exposed to him, feeling the slight hairstubble catch on his tongue, gentling the goosebumps with broad swipes of his tongue, and Basti moans, and then he's turntwisting around, and their mouths clash, hungry roaming, and Metze drowns into him, the waves closing over his head, dragging him down, and he lets them.

And finally Metze's searching hand meets hothungry skin molding itself to his touch, and Basti's moans echo in his mouth and Metze doesn't have to look at him to know what he looks like now: eyes closed, almost scrunched up, the little frown between his eyebrows that only shows when he's concentrating on something, his ears reddening slightly and the longsleek throat exposed, inviting him to licksuckkissbite, and this is what Metze does now, swooping down, and Basti's hand is in his hair, fisting – as if he wants him to keep doing it and stop it, both at the same time, and Metze nips, hardquick, at that juncture, something he knows drives Basti mad, and right on cue, his best friend moans, and if they were lying down with Metze's lankymuscled frame covering him, he'd trash upwards, only to be met by Metze's body pressing down, holding him in check.

"Stop, stop, Christoph, my god, stop," and Basti's frantic whispering buzzes around in Metze's head until he catches the meaning, raising his head and meeting Basti's eyes, dilated, and his best friend raises a hand, touching his cheek, thumb smoothing down, sweeping brushes burning itself into his skin, and then Basti smiles. Wondrously, half in awe, "damn, if you're always like this after scoring…" and Metze can't help himself, lowering his mouth again to Basti's, but his best friend has half-turned away so that he only catches his ear, but doesn't let this deter him, mouthing the delicate shell, nibbling it, feeling Basti squirm and push him away, "later, later, door's first," and Metze stops it, but still keeps his hands around Basti, on that hotdamp skin, wanting to never let him escape.

Click – the door's open, and they stumble inside and then it's just utter, pure madness, testosterone-filled desire, clothes flying here and there until Metze's tugging at Basti's boxer shorts, wanting to get closer, wanting to get _inside_ him, wanting to lose himself in his Kelly, his one and only true north, and Basti lets him have a go at it, opening himself up willingly.

Sighing into Metze's mouth, Basti voices his own desire, the endless build-up, and his arms are a stronghold for Metze, the fingers twisting in the dark strands that seem almost black in the darkness, tongues duelling for dominance and then Metze's hands are on Basti's bare buttocks, the boxer shorts sliding down, stopped by the entangled thighs and the hotscorching touch of their cocks sliding against each other is almost enough to make Metze crazy, crazy about everything, but about Basti first and foremost, and then the slightly smaller midfielder hisses in his ear, desperately, "couch," and Metze nods, turning them around so that he can see the fine dust of Basti's hair glowing in the moonlight, his broad hands roaming over the back, almost as if they are sweeping off the gleaming dust.

Then they fall down on the broad couch, Metze on top, and with some twisting kicks the remaining boxer shorts land on the floor, and then it's just a pale tangle of limbs and bodies, twistingheavingrocking, moans and sighs and gasps building up a crescendo, and Metze closes his mouth once again over Basti's, seeking for completion, nipping hard on the swollen lips, his tongue thrusting into the wetwarmth. Basti shudders all over, his nails digging into Metze's sides and drawing searing trails down to his bare ass, gripping it mercilessly, and the hotswollen pit between their stomachs, slipperywarm, is close to eruption, but just _that_ close, and Metze longs for Basti in an unspoken ache, wanting to thrust into him, wanting to fill him up with himself, to feel that indescribable connection.

He slides a hand down Basti's side, feeling the thigh muscles flex, the heel digging into the underside of his knee, and then Basti's edging up, having read his thoughts and suddenly Metze's cock slides off Basti's body and his hand fumbles around, catching his slipperyhot cock and aligning it so it slides with the first thrust upwards right into Basti's asscrack, and he hears a pressed, "now, now, damn you, _now_" and obeys, inserting a finger along his cock and feeling the furls clenching at the first touch. Pushing upwards, the easy slide into Basti is welcomed by a loud moan and a hard clench, and Metze knows that his best friend is dangerously close and there's no time to be wasted with niceties, and pulling his finger out, he obeys Basti's whispered, "put it in, _yes_" and then they're connected again with a single thrust and he stays like that, knowing that he's that close to come if he'd move just a little bit and Basti's hiss alerts him that he might have been too rough, but then, Basti has confessed in him that he does like it like that from time to time, and considering the wetwarm throbbing slide of Basti's still-hard cock against his stomach, it's one of these times, so Metze bends down and nibbles on the jaw-line, feeling his heart beat in his throat, a loud thump-thump, and then Basti's hands are on his face, drawing him upwards, and their mouths meet in a slowsweet kiss with an underlying jittery anticipation, prolonging the end, and Metze feels like a coiled spring, ready to explode at any minute, any second, and he knows that Basti feels the same, the desperation in the kiss proof.

And just when it has grown too unbearable, just a bit more and it might send Metze round the bend, make him crazy with that unquenchable desire for finishing, for spilling himself into Basti, _just_ then Basti pushes forward, his heels digging hard into Metze's thighs, and he blindly follows, thrusting hard, harder, in a disjointed rhythm, punctured by Basti's clenching, and their harsh breaths mingle, sighmoans, grunts, and he feels sweat break out over all his body, harderharder, and he has to scrunch his eyes shut, firewheels spiralling in front of his eyes, sparks bursting, and then, with a last hard thrust, almost having pulled out of Basti whole and then bam! he's back, and his ears are ringing with their screams and he's exploding, into a million thousand zillion little pieces, flying outwards and then back, completing himself and he falls. Falls down into reality, onto Basti, crashing on him.

Slowdamp. Strokes. Hand. Breathing hard. Coolness. Warmth. Drowsiness. Lazymouthing. Tickles. Heartthrobbing. Close. Together. Love.

"Metze?" Whispering, and he knows it's Basti, and he knows what he wants to say, but he hasn't the strength to nod, only to be a blanket, a very heavywarm blanket for his best friend, for the one man he loves, for Basti. His Kelly. Who's now wriggling, pressing small kisses on his cheek, on his ear, on his neck, stroking his hair, his nape down to his back, slowly, and Metze never wants to leave this, the comfortwarmth that is Basti, "let's go to bed, Christoph," and he nevertheless obeys, sliding out of Basti slowly, the 'plop' making Basti wince, and the whitish gleaming smears on his stomach tell of the shared passion. Metze gets up from the couch, heavylegged, and extends a hand to Basti, warmfingers entangling, and then they're standing. Metze can't resist, closing his mouth over Basti's, seeking comfort, lazy nips, and then Basti's bending down, and then his boxer shorts are used to perfunctorily clean them up.

And then they're burrowing under the sheets of Basti's queen size bed, quickly warming them up, legs entangled and Metze's all over Basti, enclosing him in his arms, and some slow kisses, drowsy with sleep, follow until the only sounds that can be heard are their deep breaths.


End file.
